


As Good As A Holiday

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s05e02 Good God Y'all!, Gen, POV Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-22
Updated: 2009-09-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Coda to 5x02, and thus contains spoilers for that episode.  Unbeta'd.</p>
    </blockquote>





	As Good As A Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to 5x02, and thus contains spoilers for that episode. Unbeta'd.

Sam hitches his way to Maine. It takes him about a week, and he lives on gas station candy and bad coffee the entire time. Once Dean said those words, actually _agreed_ to let him go, Sam'd been in a hurry to get out of his sight before he lost his shit completely. He was a hundred miles down the road before he realised he hadn't taken any money with him.

He lucks out on the seventh day; there's a truck stop with a bar where his latest ride lets him out. Sam spends four hours in there and racks up five hundred dollars--small wins, nothing showy, not Dean's style at all. Sam is actively trying not to think about Dean for the time being. It doesn't really help, but it's all he can do for now. Once he gets to wherever he's going, there'll be plenty of time to fall apart.

He finally stops in a small town on one of the fall tourist loops. The leaves are turning, an explosion of red-gold-yellow, edged here and there with fading green. The town is rustic, charming; there are old-fashioned signs promoting half a dozen antique stores, handmade goods, local produce. Sam feels like he could be comfortable here, for a while.

He checks into a tiny motel about a mile outside town. The act of paying for a single room is almost enough to shatter the bubble of calm he's been living in, but he keeps it together long enough to get into the room and lock the door behind him.

The next few hours are ... bad.

When he's done, Sam climbs to his feet using the door as support and shambles into the bathroom to shower. He doesn't look in the mirror. He drinks several glasses of water to rehydrate and falls into bed, exhaustion claiming him before he can even think about food.

* * *

It's weird waking up alone. He's never gotten used to it, even when ... even last year. Sam wonders in a carefully detached way if that was part of the reason he fell in with Ruby so easily. He's not really good at being on his own.

Food, Sam decides. Food will improve his outlook on things. He dresses quickly and walks into town, eyeing the options consideringly. There's a diner that looks like a hundred other diners they've-- _he's_ \--eaten in over the years, and a cutesy-looking cafe with sidewalk tables and lace tablecloths. Everything else is still closed. Sam deliberately chooses the cafe, even though his knees knock painfully against the too-small table when he sits down.

He eats croissants and fruit salad and drinks three cups of dishwater coffee, trying not to think about the smell of hash browns drifting over from the diner across the street. When he pays his bill he asks for directions to the local library, claiming an interest in local history. _Just passing through, ma'am. I'm on kind of a walking tour. Yes, the foliage is lovely this time of year._

The library is just opening when he gets there. Sam wanders the stacks aimlessly for a while, staying far away from the history and their half-shelf collection on the occult. He feels lost, an alien feeling in this setting. Sam has always known what to do in a library, but not this time.

He stays anyway, because he doesn't know what else to do. They have a surprisingly good sci-fi section; he settles down with a selection of Heinlein and Adams and Gibson, losing himself in fiction because, paradoxically, at least he knows where he is there.

The realisation that he's skipped lunch comes at closing time when the librarian gently ousts him from the depths of his comfortable chair. Sam's stomach rumbles embarrassingly; the old man grins and Sam smiles back, startled at how strange it feels. He walks out of the library in a vague daze, low blood sugar and too much reading making his head thick. This time he chooses the diner. He can be a little slow sometimes, but he's learning.

Belly full and body restless, he's walking back to the motel pondering a training run when he spots a car parked on the side of the road with its hood up in the universal sign of mechanical distress. Sam slows his pace as he draws even, suddenly noticing his lack of weapons for the first time. There's a guy bent over the engine, his back to Sam, and a dull clang emanates from the shadowy depths, followed by a low curse.

The guy backs out and stands up, sucking on his knuckles. They're bleeding. Sam instantly looks away, but it's too late. His dinner churns sickly in his gut.

"You okay, buddy?" the guy asks, peering at him. "You look kinda pale."

"I'm good," Sam says, staring at the ground. "You need a hand here?"

"Not unless you got a new head gasket up your sleeve," the guy replies. "This bitch is done for. Gonna have to junk the whole damn car."

Sam barely knows what a head gasket is, so he just nods and makes a commiserating sound. He leaves the guy standing in the road looking forlornly at his useless car. An idea is forming, tentative and hopeful, and Sam's stride lengthens as it takes root, grows purpose. By the time he gets back to his room, it's a bona fide plan.

Sam goes for a five mile run and sleeps like a rock. The next morning he goes back to the library, heads straight for the automotive repair section and starts to read.

* * *

He's in the back of the shop one day, stretched out under a tiny Fiat, when he hears the instantly familiar roar of the Impala pulling up out front. Sam slides out so fast he gets a little dizzy.

He's the only one working at the moment. Bill's on his lunch break, and Tony went off with the tow truck about an hour ago to rescue someone stranded in a ditch on the highway. Sam's on his own.

Dean's stride is audible from inside the workshop; steady thud-thud of work boots against asphalt. It sounds like Sam's heart beating. He gets about two seconds to take a deep breath and try to calm down a little, and then Dean's head is poking around the side of the open roller door, peering into the depths of the workshop.

"Anybody here?" Dean calls out, rapping on the metal door rails.

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but the words won't come for a second. He just stands there and stares at his brother, entirely unchanged from when Sam last saw him three months ago. Dean looks haunted, and tired, and there's a new scar on his neck, raw and angry, like someone went for him with a knife and nearly succeeded. Sam swallows hard and grips the rag he's holding hard enough to make his knuckles creak.

"Hellooooo?"

Dean takes a step inside the workshop, eyes narrowing and one hand creeping to the small of his back. Sam knows he's got his Colt stashed there, and at least one knife within easy reach. He thinks of his own tiny .22 Sig Sauer tucked away in an ankle holster, and of the knife strapped to his left triceps. Old habits die hard; old Winchester habits never die at all.

He steps out of the shadows just as Dean starts to sidle along the wall, eyes darting everywhere. For a second he sees Sam and his eyes glide right over him, as if Sam is an expected sight; then his gaze snaps back with an almost physical shock, and Dean gives the most classic double-take Sam's ever seen.

" _Sammy_?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam walks toward his brother, absently wiping his hands clean of engine grease. "Hi, Dean."

Dean looks dumbstruck for approximately half a second, and then Sam gets the barest glimpse of joy on his face before Dean's usual scowl slams down over it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, looking around the workshop. "Thought you were allergic to getting your hands dirty."

"I, um. I work here," Sam says. He fights the urge to bristle when Dean raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"You _work_ here?" Dean repeats. "Here?" He makes a show of surveying the place, then looks back at Sam. "Doing what, sweeping the floor?"

Sam takes a deep breath, trying not to grind his teeth. It's a painfully familiar routine.

"No," he says evenly. "I'm fixing cars. Can I help you with something?"

Dean's mouth falls open; just as quickly he snaps it shut and shakes his head in disbelief. Sam walks past him to the doorway, looking out at the Impala parked at the gas pumps. It looks the same as ever: a little road dust, but with black and chrome shining through, Sam's home in the shape of a family sedan.

"Let me get this straight," Dean says after a minute. "The world's in the middle of the Apocalypse, Bobby's stuck in a wheelchair, Castiel's gone off looking for God ... and you decided to become a _mechanic_? Great timing, Sam. Really."

Sam winces at the sharpness in Dean's tone, a near-perfect impression of Dad's pissed-off-but-not-showing-it voice. He doesn't know how to explain his reasoning. He's not entirely sure he _has_ any reasoning. It was just something to do, and then ...

"It was what I thought you'd do," he murmurs without quite meaning to.

He can feel Dean turn to stare at him. Sam doesn't return the look, staying side-on to Dean in a weak effort at self-preservation. In his peripheral vision he sees Dean open and close his mouth several times without saying anything, looking more confused by the second, and Sam's heart breaks a little more for him.

"Well, you gotta get out of here," Dean says at last. "I got a tip from Ellen that there's been demon sightings in a town twenty miles from here. That's too close for comfort, Sammy."

"What did you stop for?" Sam asks, turning around. He heads back toward the storeroom without looking at Dean. "We've got some parts that'll fit the Impala, but if it's something complicated I'll have to put in an order."

"Sam! Are you listening?" Dean trails him into the storeroom, reaching out to grab at his arm. "There are demons nearby. You have to clear out."

He doesn't say why. He doesn't have to. Sam smiles and shakes his head.

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

"Oh, for--Sam, I'm not kidding around here." Dean steps in front of him and puts his hands on Sam's shoulders. "You have to go. I'll take care of the demon problem, and then I'll call you and you can come back, okay?"

"No," Sam says, and takes a step back. "What part was it you said you needed for the car?"

"Forget about the freaking car, Sam!" Dean runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "What is wrong with you? Why are you fighting me on this?"

"I'm not fighting you. I'm just not going." Sam reaches up onto a shelf and brings down an inventory list, flipping through it to find parts suitable for the Impala. "I haven't had any cravings in over a month, Dean. I'll be fine here. You go do what you have to do. I'll loan you a car until the Impala's fixed."

"You are the most stubborn son of a bitch I have ever met," Dean snarls.

"Thank you." Sam smiles. "Coming from you, I take that as a compliment."

* * *

Dean's gone for two days. The Impala sits in pride of place in the middle of the workshop, gleaming from the detail job Sam gives it. The repairs were fairly basic; nothing Dean couldn't have done himself, of course, but he'd tossed the keys to Sam almost absently on his way out the door without a word. Sam sat shotgun in the car for an hour before he'd been able to actually do any work.

When Dean comes back, none the worse for wear except the loss of another night's sleep, he sees the job Sam did on the car and his step falters, just slightly. A smile of unbearable sweetness crosses his face as he trails his fingers over the gleaming paint job, gone an instant later when Sam comes out of the office.

"You better not have left a wrench anywhere you shouldn't," he mutters, catching the keys Sam throws to him. He starts the engine and makes a satisfied grunt when the Impala purrs to life, rumbling smooth and steady in the echoing space. He lets it run for a minute before twisting the key, silencing the low roar.

"Need anything else?" Sam asks. He waves away Dean's wallet. "Don't be stupid, man. It's on the house."

"But the parts--"

"Shut up," Sam interrupts. "It's on the house, I said."

They stare at each other for a while, the late afternoon sun creeping through the workshop and gilding their faces. Sam takes in the lines of Dean's expression, storing it up, because he doesn't know when he'll see his brother again.

"You said," Dean starts, then flushes a little and rubs at his neck. "Ah, fuck it."

"What?" Sam tilts his head. "Go on."

Dean peers up at him, then clears his throat, apparently encouraged. "Just. You said it's been over a month since you had any cravings. That true?"

Sam shrugs. "Pretty much." He tucks his hands into his coverall pockets and leans against the wall of the office. "I wasn't doing so great before." He shoots a look at Dean to indicate what 'before' means, and Dean nods. "It was like that for a while. I couldn't even trust myself around humans, just in case."

Dean's eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything.

"I camped out in the woods for a while, until I got some control over it," Sam continues. "No people around, and plenty of studying to do." He waves a hand to encompass the workshop, and Dean's eyes widen again. "Then when I had a handle on it, I started testing myself. Coming into town for quick visits. Took a while before I could trust that I wasn't going to snap and slash someone's throat in the middle of the street." He grimaces. "Now I know how those vampires feel, and it sucks."

"Ha ha," Dean says automatically. "Sammy--God, I had no idea it was that bad." He looks guilty, and Sam immediately starts shaking his head. "I shouldn't have let you go off alone--"

"No, hey, Dean," he breaks in, before Dean really gets going. "It was the right thing to do. I needed to get away, from hunting, from everything, or I would've gone insane. For real." He holds Dean's gaze until Dean nods, slowly. "I want to thank you for letting me go, actually. You could've stopped me, and you didn't."

"Please." Dean snorts. "Like anyone's ever stopped you from doing something once your mind was made up."

"After Lilith," Sam says quietly, "you could. I'm never going to second-guess you again, Dean."

Dean shuts up then; that wound is still a little raw on both sides. He nods once, though, acknowledging the point.

"Well," Dean says after another silence. "I'd better get going. Told Bobby I'd drop by when I was finished here."

"How is he?" Sam asks, suddenly overcome with his own guilt for not asking before.

"Still in the damn chair." Dean sighs. "The doctors say he might be stuck there for life. He's been pissed off since he got out of the hospital." He raises an eyebrow. "He might appreciate a visitor, you know."

Sam takes a few minutes to answer, pretending to think it over. His duffle is already packed and sitting in the trunk of the car; all he needs to do is grab his jacket and they're good to go. He's left a note for Bill foregoing his last paycheck. He hasn't been spending the money anyway; he has plenty to tide them over for a while.

He lets Dean stew while he wanders into the office. When he comes back out, jacket in hand, he circles Dean and slumps comfortably into the passenger seat.

"Well?" he calls through the open window. "We going or what?"

"Bitch," Dean mutters, but he's smiling.

END


End file.
